Under Cover
by lamentomori
Summary: "Bring your pillows to my place." "No, I'm literally using them; I need them here, in bed, with me, where I am using them, for sleeping on." (7 Sins continuity) Warnings: 2nd person Colt PoV, Slash (Colt/Punk), Smut, Profanity,Fluff, Epic Pillow Forts.


_7Sins Continuity _Warnings: 2nd person Colt PoV, Slash (Colt/Punk), Smut, Profanity, Fluff.

* * *

_Bring me your pillows! - Punkers 06:03_

_FUCK OFF I AM USING THEM - sent 06:06_

_AND GO TO SLEEP PUNKERS! - sent 06:08_

_Please? - Punkers 06:11_

_ZZZZZZZZZZZZZZZZZZZZZ - sent 06:15_

_Colt? - Punkers 06:18_

_Colt... - Punkers 06:26_

_COLT! - Punkers 06:35_

_Incoming Call_

_Punkers_

_Accept Reject_

"Wha?"

"_Morning!_"

"Fuck off, Punkers. I'm sleeping."

"_Bring your pillows to my place._"

"No, I'm literally using them; I need them here, in bed, with me, where I am using them, for sleeping on, which you should be doing too."

"_Sleeping on your pillows_?"

"What? Punkers? Punk?" He's hung up, you drop your cell on the bed and hide your head under a pillow. You have less than no idea what he's doing, if you're honest, you think _he_ has less than no idea too. You wish he'd find something to do but being insane and bouncing off the walls. There's only so often O'Neil can scrape time off to be with him and there's only so much time when you're not busy, to make sure he hasn't gotten some mad scheme into his head. The sooner he finds something to fill his time with, the better, you think as you fall back asleep.

"Colt, hey, wakey-wakey." You're sure he hung-up on you, this is your first thought when you hear his voice. You send one hand to try and locate your cell phone stabbing blindly at it, trying to make it hang-up. "Hey, you're awake." Ah, Punkers, live and in person not via phone call.

"Sleeping." You groan, trying to burrow further under the comforter.

"It's nearly seven; we'll miss all the good cartoons." He leans over you and whispers in your ear.

"Seven in the morning?" You squirm round and pointedly look at him. "Fucking seven on a fucking Saturday morning and you want me to watch fucking cartoons?" He grins and nods, looking ridiculously childish. "Oh fuck, when did you _sleep_ last, Punkers?" You ask him, slowly sitting up and looking at the slightly manic look in his eyes.

"Last night." He says easily, still grinning. His bags have looked smaller; he's looked healthier since he did, whatever it is he did with the WWE. He says he's done, they say he's on sabbatical and you honestly aren't going to trust them over him. The only problem is, you think, his brain and body, simply, aren't used to being well rested, all of this sleeping is sending him madder than not ever did.

"Good for you, Punkers." You mutter, ruffling his hair, then flopping back against your pillows, your intention entirely to fall back asleep until you need to use pm to tell people the time.

"C'mon, Cabana." He's leaning over you, shaking your shoulder and dangerously close to _whining_. You crack one eye open and stare at him, willing him to fall asleep or go away or at very least be quiet.

"What, Punk?" You mutter, pulling him down against you, trapping him in your arms, the desperate hope that if you hold him, he'll get sleepy and or at least quiet, he does love snuggling after all.

"C'mon up. I'll feed you, water you too." He still sounds infuriatingly awake. You sigh and let him go, getting out of bed slowly, mourning its cosy comfort, the moment your feet hit the floor. This must be what your friends with kids feel like, you think as you pull a shirt over your head and watch him raiding your bed, carrying the pillows to the living room before returning for the comforter. You follow along behind him and stop. Your living room is full of pillows, cushions from his couches and the big, squashy comforter from his bed.

"Punkers?" He turns to you, his grin still on his lips.

"Uh-huh?" You shake your head, you're not sure how to phrase the question other than what the actual fuck are you doing but that question might wipe the grin from him and he looks so stupidly happy, you don't have the heart to upset him. "So breakfast or construction?" He asks.

"You want to build a pillow fort?" You ask him, he nods enthusiastically. You're too tired to make sense of this, your sleep is still kind of fucked up from India and your living room is full of soft furnishings because your best friend is insane and wants to build a pillow fort. "Okay." You grab one of the two armchairs in the lounge and turn it round, he does the same to the other one and thus construction begins. You've not actually built a pillow fort since your age fit on one hand but it's surprisingly simple to remember how to do it. The fact that the sheets that make up the roof are held to your chairs with athletic tape is unreasonably amusing and the sheer quantity of pillows and comforters making up the floor of this fort, means that whilst cramped, it's more comfortable than your bed. The whole time you were building, the grin never once wavered from his face, even if all you intend to do is sleep in _his_ monstrosity, you're not accepting any responsibility for it, you're glad he's happy.

"Colt!" You poke your head out of the entrance and he snaps a picture. You throw one of the little cushions, from the big awesome sofa in his place, at him and he laughs as you miss.

"Feed me." You mutter, watching him playing with his cell, you get the feeling that he's sending it to O'Neil, which is confirmed a few minutes later, once he's gone to the kitchen.

_Do I want to know? - O'Neil 07:29_

_Pillow fort. I think sleeping is actually bad for him; you may not have a boyfriend to come home too. - sent 07:32_

_Don't kill him; I'm not in the will yet! I want that sofa! - O'Neil 07:36_

_It's mine! Back off, O'Neil! - sent 07:37_

_Too bad, Mikey, I'm having it! Be good! Don't kill him! It wouldn't be worth the internet drama! - O'Neil 07:39_

"Ta-dah!" He appears at the fort entrance, a plate of pop tarts in one hand and your milk carton in the other. Pop tarts and milk, you shake your head, sugar and calcium, excellent start to the day. You nibble at one of the tarts and wait for him to come back, you hope with glasses. He reappears, glasses in tow and pours one for you then himself. He sits opposite you grinning. "It's a good fort." He sounds content with this bout of madness and you can't say you mind it. It's not a _bad_ fort, you'll give him that.

"So we have our fort, I'm going to imagine you've plans for the day." He nods his head, grin unwavering.

"I have plans, lots of plans." You raise an eyebrow and hide a yawn behind your hand. "Napping is scheduled for the afternoon, Cabana." He grins and squirms out of the fort, taking the glasses, plate and milk to the kitchen. When he returns, he settles beside you, an odd little smile on his face, replacing the grin, you don't like this smile, you've seen it before and nothing good comes of it. "I didn't do this as a kid, you know." He says softly, tucking his knees under his chin, arms around his shins. You glance over at him, his eyes are distant, focussed on something else, something faraway and long ago. No, nothing good comes of that smile.

"C'mere." You reach over and tug him to you; he collapses against you and chuckles.

"Sap." he mutters softly. You tickle his side, he laughs and smacks at your hand, retaliating by tickling you back. Eventually, after some more tickling and almost bringing the roof down, you end up curled around each other, his head tucked under your chin, your arms wrapped about him tightly. He produces the remote for your TV from somewhere in the little fort and switches on Cartoon Network. He kisses your arm and snuggles back against you, his hands stroking your arms. You yawn and feel yourself drifting off for a nap, even as he starts complaining about how this reboot has ruined Thundercats. You kiss his hair and shake your head, if he wants to pretend to be a child, you'll indulge him. There's worse ways to spend a ridiculously early started Saturday.

You're not sure when, exactly, you fell asleep, sometime during a rant about how they had ruined Tygra, didn't they know that being ineffectual and shit was integral to his character and making him competent and talented just ruined that. The TV is playing something else; you've no idea what it is, loud and flashy with a low animation budget. He's still talking through it, complaining about something or another. You squeeze him slightly and he presses a kiss to your arm.

You watch cartoons all day, laughing at him, as he complains about the lack of any substance in children's television, laughing even more when he manages to find old G.I. Joe reruns and lies in your arms, quoting the dialogue with near Shakespearean gravitas. He falls asleep at some stage through something you think is Japanese and badly dubbed into English and wakes up when Pokémon comes on. All in all, it's a strange, if pleasant day, listening to him babble, stroking his stomach, eating more pop tarts and napping. He seems more than happy and you're perfectly content to waste a day in his company. You don't think this was part of his plan but as the evening wears on into night, your innocent petting of the skin of his stomach gets bolder, he keeps shifting, as though torn between wanting to go with your gentle touches and wanting to just lie curled up watching TV. Your hand slips under the waistband of his shorts, down to stroke over his hipbone and he makes a soft little noise.

"Want you." You murmur in his ear, he squirms slightly and turns round, facing you.

"You want to profane the sanctity of my fortress?" His tone is entirely serious and you can't help but laughing at him. He looks mildly offended and kisses you, his lips soft and yielding, conceding the kiss to you easily.

"Profane something, maybe." You mutter, leaning in to kiss him again. He sighs dramatically and roots around in the pocket of his shorts, pressing a little bottle of lube into your hand, perhaps this was in the plan after all. He wriggles out of his clothes and you follow suit, shoving them to the side somewhere in the little fort. He lets you prep him, laying on his side, half draped over you, as you finger him, his own hand wrapped around your cock, getting you hard and coating your length with lube. Once he's prepped, you move him from on top of you, so he's lying on his side. You move closer to him and take his leg, place it over your hip and draw him close. You enter him slowly, his breath in your ear, his hands pulling you close. You rock together, slowly building to climax, his cock rubbing against you, one of your hands cupping his ass, keeping him close, the other running along his thigh, pulling it a little higher, letting you move more deeply inside of him. He's moaning softly and moving with you, all gentle and fluid. This whole _sabbatical_ thing has made the sex between you very gentle. You can't help but wonder why, it might be the sabbatical, it might be the fact you're not over eager children, leaping to try each new cool thing as soon as you've found it any more, it might be that O'Neil is, secretly, a kinky bitch and tops the fuck out of him, honestly you're not sure and are mildly freaked out by that last thought. He shifts, forcing you onto your back, your hands moving to his waist and as he begins riding your cock, still slow and deliberate but reared back slightly, stroking his own dick, his back hunched awkwardly to avoid knocking the roof of the pillow fort. You raise one hand to brush your thumb over his lips; he parts them and nibbles lightly on your flesh.

"I'm close, Colt." He murmurs and you nod vaguely, still stroking his lips. He comes with a quiet curse and collapses against you, chest heaving. You cradle him close and roll him to his back, thrusting into him more firmly, seeking you climax with steady determination, his hands trailing up and down your back, his lips against yours. After you come, you lay over him, feeling him stroking your skin softly, listening to him breathing. When you pull out of his body, you curl up beside him, the blankets and pillows of the fort making a cosy little nest around you both, he turns on his side and smiles softly at you.

"Thank you." You shake your head; you've not done anything out of the ordinary, well apart from the pillow fort.

"S'okay, Punkers." You tell him softly, pulling him closer to you, letting him tuck his head beneath your chin, his arms wrapped around you, hands stoking your shoulder blades.

"No, I." He sighs. "Thank you for putting up with me, Colt. I've been." Another sigh as he tries to burrow his head further against your neck. He's quiet for a painfully long time before he speaks again. "Hard work." He sounds sullenly quiet; you laugh and tilt his face up, catching his eyes with your own.

"Punkers, you're _always _hard work, just the way you are." He looks mildly offended and you kiss his temple. "You're worth the hard work and let's face I'm not exactly _easy_, myself." You waggle your eyebrows and he looks at you with a wry smile, then kisses you.

"I just, I want to d-"

"You can clear this mess up in the morning." You interrupt him, if he wants to do something for you, that's plenty, the only hard work you've had to do today was construction, demolition and rubble clearing will be payment enough.

* * *

_So sweet, harmless, cuddly fluff as a total counter measure to working on _**_Amor Vincit Omnia _**_with (I say with, I feel like when actors are credited as executive producer really) the impressive Ms **alizabethianrose**. **Please **go have a look-see! I'd be grateful! :3_

_On the subject of gratitude, if you like more of it from me, stick a little review in the big old box down there. Thanksssssss!_


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